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Lord's Cricket Ground. The name itself carries a weight that no other venue in the sport can claim. The Victorian pavilion, the blinding white media center, the slight slope of the turf that has haunted bowlers and batters for over a century.
The air was thick with humidity as the two captains walked out to the center. Virat Kohli, dressed in the crisp navy-blue blazer over his whites, looked every bit the general ready for war. Beside him, Joe Root looked calm, though the pressure of the home series weighed on him.
They met Match Referee Chris Broad and the presenter, Nasser Hussain, at the pitch.
"Heads is the call," Virat said as the coin spun in the grey London air.
It landed. Tails.
"It's tails," Chris Broad confirmed.
A cheer went up from the gathered crowd. Joe Root didn't hesitate. "We'll have a bowl, thanks. There's a bit of green on the wicket, overheads are cloudy. We'd like to make use of the conditions first up."
Virat accepted the decision with a grimace but a nod. "We would have bowled first too, but it's a good opportunity to put runs on the board. It's about navigating that first hour."
The team sheets were exchanged. Handshakes were firm. The battle lines were drawn.
But this is England. The only thing more unpredictable than the swing is the weather.
Just five minutes after the toss, as KL Rahul and Rohit Sharma were marking their guards, the ground staff rushed onto the field. The hovering clouds burst. The covers were dragged on.
"Typical," I muttered from the balcony, watching the rain paint the Home of Cricket in gloomy shades.
"Relax," Ravi Shastri said, sipping his coffee. "It's a passing shower. Just keeps the moisture in the pitch. Be ready."
He was right. Twenty-five minutes later, the sun tried to peek through. The umpires walked out.
James Anderson stood at the top of his mark at the Pavilion End. The crowd buzzed—a low, nervous hum.
The match began.
Anderson and Mark Wood hunted in pairs. They used the famous Lord's slope perfectly. Anderson drifted the ball down the hill into the pads, then swung it away. Wood, from the Nursery End, used his raw pace to skid the ball off the surface.
But the Indian openers were in a trance.
Rohit Sharma, the Hitman, decided that attack was the best form of defense. When Anderson overpitched slightly, seeking the swing, Rohit leaned into sumptuous drives that scorched the turf. KL Rahul, on the other hand, was the Monk. He left the ball with surgical precision, knowing exactly where his off-stump was.
By the time the umpires called for Drinks, India sat at 38/0 in 15 overs. (Rohit Sharma 29*, KL Rahul 8*)
"Good start, boys!" Virat clapped as they walked off. "Keep the discipline!"
But the momentum was broken again. As the drinks cart left the field, the drizzle returned. The umpires looked at the light, then the sky, and called for an early Lunch.
It was a frustrating hour of waiting. We sat in the dressing room, pads on, watching the rain radar.
When play finally resumed, the ball was older, but the break had refreshed the bowlers.
The post-lunch session began under dark clouds. The floodlights were on, illuminating the red Duke ball like a crimson comet.
In the 23rd over, James Anderson showed why he is the greatest fast bowler England has ever produced.
He had been feeding Rohit a steady diet of outswingers, luring him to play away from his body. Rohit had been leaving them or defending comfortably.
Then, Anderson changed his grip. The wobble seam.
Ball 22.2: Anderson ran in. The release was identical. The line was just outside off. Rohit planted his front foot, expecting the ball to hold its line or shape away.
But the ball jagged back in sharply off the seam. It was a genius at work. It snuck past Rohit's inside edge, a fraction too quick for the bat to come down.
Thud. Clack.
The ball kissed the back pad and smashed into the top of the off-stump.
"YEAHHH!" Anderson roared, veins popping in his neck.
It would have been Plumb LBW if it hadn't bowled him. It was the unplayable delivery.
Rohit Sharma b Anderson 51 (115) India: 72/1
The Barmy Army, England's notorious fan group, erupted. Trumpets blared. Cheers echoed around the stadium.
I stood up in the dressing room. My time.
"Go well, Aarav," Virat said, tapping my helmet.
I grabbed my bat—the MRF Legacy Edition, the wood grains straight and beautiful. I adjusted my gloves and walked down the stairs of the Pavilion.
Walking through the Long Room at Lord's is a spiritual experience. The members, dressed in their egg-and-bacon ties, clapped politely. But as soon as I stepped onto the grass, the atmosphere shifted.
"Who are ya? Who are ya?""Overrated! Overrated!"
The Barmy Army had found their target. My comments at the press conference—about hitting Anderson—had clearly circulated. The booing was loud, visceral.
I jogged to the crease, ignoring the noise. I looked at KL, who gave me a fist bump.
"Moving a bit, but the pitch is true," KL said quietly.
I nodded. I took my guard. "Middle stump, umpire."
I marked the crease with my spikes, scratching a deep line into the turf. I looked up. James Anderson was at the top of his mark, the tail of the lion up. He glared at me. I stared back, chewing gum rhythmically.
Ball 22.3: Anderson to Aarav.
Anderson knew the plan. The crowd wanted blood. He ran in, the rhythm smooth as silk.
He bowled it full, shaping away. An invitation. Drive me. Nick me.
I didn't lunge. My head stayed still, my weight transferred perfectly onto the back foot. I waited for the ball to arrive.
With a sharp snap of the wrists, I played a late cut.
I didn't try to hit it hard. I just used Anderson's pace. The ball raced off the face of the bat, dissecting the gap between gully and backward point.
FOUR.
The ball hit the boundary ropes before the fielder even completed his dive.
The booing stopped for a split second, replaced by a ripple of applause from the Indian contingent.
I didn't smile. I didn't say a word. I just walked down the pitch, tapped the surface with my bat, and returned to my stance.
Anderson smirked. Game on.
The rest of the over was a battle of attrition. I defended solidly, getting behind the line. Respect where it was due.
Seeing my aggressive intent, Joe Root decided to change the angle. He took Anderson off and brought Mark Wood back from the Nursery End.
"Pace," KL whispered as we crossed. "He's going to bang it in."
"Let him," I replied.
KL Rahul faced the first ball of the new spell, defending calmly and stealing a quick single to bring me on strike.
Mark Wood, arguably the fastest bowler in the world at that moment, steamed in. The crowd started clapping in rhythm with his run-up.
Ball 23.2: Wood didn't look for swing. He looked for my head.
It was a bouncer, clocked at 92mph (148 kmph). It rose viciously off the deck, aimed right at my grille.
A normal batsman would sway. A defensive batsman would duck. I saw the seam rotation. I saw the height.
I didn't move my feet much. I just arched my back, leaning backward like I was dodging a bullet in The Matrix. As the ball passed my eye line, I extended my bat vertically.
I didn't even watch the ball. I kept my eyes fixed on Mark Wood's stunned expression as I felt the sweet vibration of the impact.
The ball sailed over the head of a leaping Jos Buttler. It kept rising.
It flew over the keeper, over the slips, and landed directly onto the boundary cushions on the full.
SIX!
The silence from the Barmy Army was deafening. It was absolute pin-drop silence in the Grandstand.
Then, the Bharat Army—the Indian fans in the Edrich Stand—erupted. The roar was like a thunderclap.
"SHOT, YAAR!" KL Rahul shouted from the other end, laughing in disbelief.
I simply turned around, twirled my bat in my hand, and adjusted my helmet. I looked at Mark Wood. He was shaking his head, a wry smile on his face. He knew he had bowled a good ball. I had just played a better shot.
From that moment, the shackles broke.
The English bowlers tried everything. Anderson returned, aiming for the pads. Robinson tried the wobble seam. Curran tried the angle across.
But I was in the zone. It wasn't reckless slugging; it was surgical demolition.
When Anderson overpitched, I leaned into a classic cover drive, my front foot extending, the bat coming down in a perfect arc. The pose was held for the cameras—high elbow, head over the ball. The ball raced through the covers like a laser.
When Sam Curran drifted onto the pads, KL Rahul flicked him effortlessly through mid-wicket, rotating the strike.
The partnership blossomed beautifully. KL was the rock—leaving well, punishing the loose ball, accumulating runs with the patience of a saint. I was the river—flowing, aggressive, finding gaps that didn't exist.
We ran hard. Ones turned into twos. The pressure shifted entirely onto Joe Root. He started moving fielders frantically—Third man back. Deep point out. Mid-on straight.
By the time the umpires checked their watches for Tea, the scoreboard was a pretty picture for India.
End of Session 2 (Tea Break) India: 172/1 (52 Overs) KL Rahul: 65 * Aarav Pathak: 48* Extras: 8
I unstrapped my gloves as we walked off the field.
I looked at the scoreboard. A partnership of exactly 100 runs.
"One session down," I told KL as we entered the dressing room. "One more to go. Let's make them pay."
"You're seeing it like a football, aren't you?" KL chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Like a beach ball, brother," I winked. "Like a beach ball."
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The tea break at Lord's is a civilized affair for the members in the Pavilion, but for the players, it's a reset button. The momentum we had built—that glorious 100-run partnership—was paused.
As KL Rahul and I walked back out, the shadows were lengthening across the turf. The floodlights were taking over completely now, fighting the gloomy London evening.
Ollie Robinson had the ball. He looked refreshed, and ready.
"Watch the restart," I tapped gloves with KL. "First ten balls. Be careful."
KL nodded, his eyes focused. He took his strike.
Ball 52.1: Robinson to Rahul. Good length, outside off. KL defended it solidly to cover. No run.
Ball 52.2: Robinson to Rahul. It looked innocuous. A length ball, angling in. KL Rahul, who had been leaving so well all day, decided to play it with a straight bat. But the Lord's slope is a cruel mistress. The ball drifted down the hill just a fraction more than he anticipated. He tried to bring his bat down, but the gap between bat and pad was open for a millisecond too long.
Clack.
The sound of timber. The ball sneaked through the gate and rattled the middle stump.
KL Rahul b Robinson 65India: 172/2
"YESSS!" Robinson screamed, pumping his fist aggressively.
The crowd roared. A wicket immediately after the break—the cardinal sin of batting. KL looked at the pitch, shook his head in frustration, and walked off. He had played a gem of an innings, but the job was incomplete.
I leaned on my bat at the non-striker's end, watching the big screen.
And then, the roar changed. It wasn't just cheering for a wicket anymore. It was a rumble.
Virat Kohli was walking down the steps.
He didn't walk; he marched. He twirled his bat in his hands, looking at the ground, then looked up at the sun, squinting. The King was here.
He marked his guard. Two leg. He looked at Robinson.
The next few overs were a test of nerves. Virat looked scratchy. He was feeling for the ball, his feet moving a fraction too slow.
Ball 54.3: Anderson to Kohli. A beautiful outswinger. Virat pushed at it hard. Edge. The ball flew low to second slip. Joe Root dived to his right. It hit his fingertips... and popped out.
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "DROPPED! Oh, you cannot do that! You simply cannot drop Virat Kohli on 4! Joe Root puts down a sitter by his standards. Is that the moment? Is that the luck India needed?"
Virat didn't look back. He just tapped the pitch, and refocused. That drop woke him up. Two balls later, he leaned into a cover drive that screamed class. He was set.
Aarav POV
I was on 49. Sam Curran was bowling wide outside off, trying to tempt me.
I didn't need to do anything heroic. I waited for a fuller ball, opened the face of the bat, and guided it to the sweeper cover for a single.
Aarav Pathak: 50 *
I didn't take off my helmet. I didn't leap in the air. I just raised my bat towards the dressing room, acknowledged the applause, and got back to work. The job wasn't done.
But something shifted in me after the fifty.
Moeen Ali came into the attack. Spin.
POV: Aarav
The slope helps the spinner too. If he bowls from the Pavilion end, it drifts into me. Moeen tossed it up, outside off.
Mind: Mid-off is up. Long-on is back. Deep square leg is back. Third man is inside the circle.
Why block?
I changed my grip. As Moeen released the ball, I pivoted. I didn't sweep. I didn't cut. I played the Reverse Scoop.
I dipped my shoulder, let the ball drift, and used the pace to flick it over the slip cordon.
SIX!
The ball landed in the stands near the Tavern.
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "Oh, for goodness sake! This is Test cricket, young man! He's played a reverse scoop for six against the spin at Lord's! It's audacious, it's brilliant, but my word, it's disrespectful to the bowler!"
Harsha Bhogle (Comms): "Nasser, you call it disrespectful, I call it evolution. Look at the confidence. He knew exactly where the fielder wasn't. He's painting the field with his own brush."
The Barmy Army started booing. A low, guttural booooo echoed around the stands. They hated it. They hated that I wasn't playing by their rulebook.
I loved it.
Then came the moment that truly broke the English morale.
James Anderson came back for another spell. He was angry. He was charging in.
Ball 68.4: Anderson to Aarav.
He was bowling that immaculate length—too short to drive, too full to pull. The corridor of uncertainty.
Internal Monologue: If I stay in the crease, the slope takes it away. If I go forward, I kill the swing.
I didn't just go forward.
As Anderson loaded up his delivery stride, I started walking. One step. Two steps. Three steps.
By the time he released the ball, I was three yards down the pitch, effectively turning a good length ball into a half-volley.
I didn't swing wild. I met the ball with a straight bat, high elbow, and punched it back past him.
It wasn't a slog. It was a punch. The ball raced past Anderson's ankles before he could even react. It hit the boundary cushion in a blink.
FOUR.
It looked like I was walking in a park, saw a piece of trash, and kicked it away.
Michael Atherton (Comms): "That is... well, I don't know what to call that. He's walked down the track to England's greatest bowler and treated him like a club trundler. Anderson is furious. Look at him kicking the turf."
Sunil Gavaskar (Comms): "You know, Cricket used to be about respect. But this boy... he respects the ball, not the reputation. His head was so still even while walking. Technically, it's perfect, even if it looks arrogant."
The booing intensified. Every time I blocked the ball now, they cheered ironically. Every time I hit a boundary, they booed.
I smirked at Virat. "They don't like us, skipper."
Virat grinned, spinning his bat. "Make them hate us, Aarav. Keep going."
I kept going. A backfoot punch off Mark Wood that sounded like a gunshot. A slog sweep against Moeen Ali that landed in the second tier. A cheeky late dab past the slip cordon.
I was manipulating the field. Root moved a fielder to deep point; I punched it through cover. He moved a fielder to cover; I cut it to point.
I was calculating the overs. Drinks are coming. We need to be 220+.
The umpires called for Drinks.
Score: India 224/2 in 72.0 oversAarav Pathak: 90 (98 balls)* Virat Kohli: 28 (62 balls)*
Shubman Gill and Hanuma Vihari ran onto the field with the bottles and towels.
I walked away from the pitch, removing my helmet. The cool air hit my sweaty hair. I could feel the steam rising off my body. The adrenaline was pumping so hard my hands were slightly shaking.
I lay down on the grass for a second, stretching my back. The sky was a beautiful, ominous grey.
"Water, bhai," Gill handed me a bottle. "You are playing like a video game. The English commentary box is crying."
I took a long swig of water, wiping my mouth. "Let them cry, Shubman. Let them cry."
"Ninety runs," Vihari said, handing a towel to Virat. "Ten more for the 3rd time at Honours Board, Aarav."
"Don't mention it," I sat up, putting my helmet back on. "Just runs. Just numbers."
Harsha Bhogle (Comms): "Welcome back. We are seeing something special here at Lord's. India is dominating, led by a young man who refuses to be intimidated. Aarav Pathak is on 90. He has played shots that shouldn't be possible in Test cricket, and he has played defensive strokes that would make Dravid proud. It is a complete package."
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "Well, England has let this drift. The bowling has been too short, too wide. But you have to credit the intent. However, this crowd... listen to them. They are not happy with some of the antics. The reverse scoops, the walking down. It's riling them up."
Sunil Gavaskar (Comms): "Nasser, if England were batting and Root played that scoop, you'd call it 'inventive.' Let's be fair. The boy is playing the ball. The crowd can boo all they want; the scoreboard only moves one way."
I stood up, strapping my gloves tight. The break was over. Ten runs away. The Barmy Army began a chant, something about me being a "One-Test Wonder."
I looked at Virat. "Ready for the final push?"
"Finish it," Virat said, his eyes burning. "Get that hundred."
I tapped my bat.
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The atmosphere at Lord's had shifted from a cricket match to a gladiatorial pit. The Barmy Army, fueled by overpriced lager and a desperate need to see the back of me, was in full voice. They were chanting something rhythmic, something that ended with "Who are ya?" and HOOOOO and BOOOOO.
I stood at the crease, tapping my bat. 90 runs. 98 balls.
I looked at the field. Joe Root had pushed men back. Deep point, deep square leg, long leg. He was trying to cut off the boundaries, trying to force me to grind out the last ten runs. He wanted me to get nervous. He wanted me to crawl to the milestone.
I smirked. Grind? Crawl? Not today.
Ollie Robinson stood at the top of his mark. He looked tired. He looked annoyed. He ran in, the ball hidden behind his back until the last moment.
Ball 72.1: Robinson to Aarav. It was a good ball. Full, aiming for the off-stump, swinging away slightly. A ball designed to be defended or driven along the ground for a single.
But I didn't want a single.
I stepped out.
It wasn't a tentative shuffle; it was a predetermined, aggressive charge. I met the pitch of the ball before it could swing. My back foot lifted, my head stayed perfectly still over the ball, and I swung through the line with the fluidity of a golfer driving off the tee.
CRACK.
The sound was pure violence. The ball didn't just clear the infield; it cleared the sightscreen. It soared high into the grey London sky, a white missile shrinking into the distance until it crashed into the upper tier of the Pavilion stand.
SIX!
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "Oh, my word! He has treated that with utter disdain! He's on 90, at Lord's, and he comes down the track to the opening bowler and hits him into the cheap seats! That is massive! He moves to 96!"
The crowd went momentarily silent, then the Indian fans erupted. Aarav didn't celebrate. Aarav just walked back to the crease, chewing my gum, spinning the bat.
96. Four runs away.
Robinson walked back to his mark, kicking the turf. He was rattled. He had a brief conference with Root. The plan changed. Don't pitch it up. Cramp him.
Ball 72.2: Robinson to Aarav. He adjusted his line. He bowled it into my body, angling down the leg side, trying to cramp me for room, trying to get an inside edge or hit the pad.
It was a negative ball. A defensive ball.
But my wrists were faster than his thinking.
I shuffled inside the line, creating room where there was none. I waited—just a fraction of a second longer than usual—and then whipped my wrists. It was a pick-up shot, borrowing from the MS Dhoni school of bottom-hand dominance, but with the flair of Yuvraj Singh.
I scooped it off my pads, whipping it high over backward square leg.
The contact was so sweet I didn't even feel it. I watched the ball sail. It kept going. And going.
It landed in the Grandstand.
HUGE SIX!
Michael Atherton (Comms): "HE'S DONE IT! IN STYLE! Two balls, two sixes, and Aarav Pathak brings up his century at the Home of Cricket! A hundred runs in just 100 balls! This is T20 batting in Test whites! Absolute carnage!"
Aarav Pathak: 102 (100 balls)*
The moment the ball crossed the rope, the noise was deafening—but only from one section of the ground. The Barmy Army was stunned into silence.
I didn't take off my helmet immediately. I turned towards the Barmy Army stand—the sea of white and red that had been booing me for the whole day.
I Raised my bat then Aarav Lowered his hand then he curled his right arm. The muscles tightened, rising beneath the sleeve like coiled steel. His forearm hardened, veins striking out like lightning. Aarav was flexing his muscles in front of Barmy army.
"ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!"
It was raw. It was aggressive. It was the release of every ounce of pressure they had tried to pile on me.
Then, I turned to the Indian dressing room, took off my helmet, and bowed deeply.
Sunil Gavaskar (Comms): "Look at that celebration! He is flexing his muscles at the Barmy Army! He has silenced them completely. That is his third century at Lord's, counting the two in the WTC final. His name goes on the Honours Board again. What a player. What a talent."
Virat walked over from the non-striker's end, a huge grin on his face. He engulfed me in a bear hug, lifting me off my feet.
"You maniac!" Virat laughed, punching my chest. "Two sixes? Really?"
"They were annoying me, skipper," I grinned, putting my helmet back on. "Had to shut them up."
"Well, they're quiet now," Virat said, looking around the hushed stadium. "Now, head down. Make it big. Daddy hundred."
After the fireworks, I shifted gears. The adrenaline rush of the century subsided, replaced by the cold, calculating logic of a Test batter.
I slowed down. The English bowlers, perhaps expecting me to continue swinging, kept the field spread. I milked them. Singles. Twos. I rotated the strike, letting Virat settle in.
We played out the next seven overs with minimal risk. The scoreboard ticked over. England looked deflated. They were waiting for something.
They were waiting for the 80th over.
The umpire signaled to the scorers. New Ball Taken.
Joe Root wasted no time. He tossed the shiny, hard, red cherry to James Anderson.
The atmosphere shifted instantly. The ball was hard. The seam was proud. The lights were on. This was the most dangerous period of play.
"Watch the swing," Virat warned me as we crossed. "It'll hoop."
Ball 80.1: Anderson to Aarav. Anderson looked revitalized. He had a new weapon. He ran in with purpose, his eyes locked on my off-stump.
He bowled it full, looking for that late swing that had dismissed countless batsmen.
I saw the shine. I saw the grip.
I didn't drive. I didn't block.
I cleared my front leg, waiting for the ball to pitch. As it landed, I brought my bat down with immense speed, but I didn't follow through with a straight arc. I whipped my wrists at the point of impact, finishing with the bat high over my head.
But it wasn't hit to cow corner. I hit it dead straight.
The bat met the ball with a sickening crunch. The ball rocketed back past Anderson's head—he had to duck to avoid decapitation—and raced to the long-off boundary.
FOUR.
Anderson stood there, hands on hips, looking at me with a mixture of anger and disbelief. He looked at Root. Root looked at the sky.
Harsha Bhogle (Comms): "Oh, stop it! You cannot do that! First ball with the new cherry, against James Anderson, and he plays a straight helicopter shot! England must be wondering what they have to do to get this young man out. It is demoralizing!"
It was a statement. New ball? Doesn't matter. Legend? Doesn't matter. I own this pitch.
However, cricket is a great leveler. Just when you think you have conquered the game, it bites back.
The euphoria of the century and the dominance against the new ball masked a dangerous reality: the ball was moving.
Anderson and his partner in crime, Mark Wood, began to find their rhythm. The new ball, combined with the failing light and the Lord's slope, started to talk.
Mark Wood, bowling from the Nursery End, was generating serious pace. 94mph. 95mph. The ball was flying past our noses.
Virat and I survived a hostile spell. We played and missed. We got hit on the pads. The runs dried up. The Barmy Army found their voice again, sensing a shift in the air.
We were trying to survive until stumps. Just get to the close of play.
But fatigue is a silent killer.
Over 84.4: Ollie Robinson replaced Anderson for a final burst before the end of the day.
Virat was on 28. He had battled hard, fighting his own instincts to play aggressively.
Robinson ran in. He bowled a nothing ball—wide of off-stump, short of a length. It wasn't a wicket-taking delivery. It was a ball meant to be left alone.
But Virat... perhaps he saw a scoring opportunity. Perhaps he wanted to feel bat on ball one last time before the close.
He pushed at it. Hard hands. No footwork.
It's the shot that has haunted him in England before. The desire to feel the ball on the bat instead of letting it pass.
Snick.
The sound was thin, sharp, and heartbreaking.
The ball flew fast to first slip. Joe Root didn't have to move. He bucketed it at chest height.
Virat Kohli c Root b Robinson 28India: 267/3
A collective groan went up from the Indian fans. Virat froze in his follow-through. He looked at the pitch, then at his bat, furious with himself. He punched his gloves together, shaking his head violently.
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "And England have a lifeline! Virat Kohli is gone in the dying moments of the day! It's not Anderson, it's not Wood, it's Robinson! A loose shot, hard hands pushing at a wide ball. He will be kicking himself. He could have watched Rahul, he could have watched Aarav—leave the ball alone! But the King falls."
I watched my captain walk back, his shoulders slumped. It was a massive blow. We had dominated the day, but losing Virat right at the end gave England a sniff. They would come back tomorrow morning with tails up, knowing that one more wicket exposes the middle order.
Ajinkya Rahane walked out as the night watchman/next batter, with only a few minutes left.
I walked over to him. "Just survive, Jinks. Let's go home."
We played out the final over nervously. The umpire removed the bails.
Stumps, Day 1.India: 269/3.Aarav Pathak: 118* Ajinkya Rahane: 0*
I walked off the field, bat tucked under my arm. The crowd applauded—both English and Indian. My century was a masterpiece, but Virat's wicket hung over us like the grey clouds above.
We had won the day, but the war was far from over.
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